


Angel Of Small Death & The Codeine Scene

by Artyphex



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1920s, Alcohol, Dancing, M/M, Prohibition, Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol, Suggestive Themes, nightclubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 21:44:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20264980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artyphex/pseuds/Artyphex
Summary: Crowley arrived in New York two years ago and has built quite a life for himself. Aziraphale arrived two hours ago and is so far unimpressed. Until he finds a strange invitation in his pocket.





	Angel Of Small Death & The Codeine Scene

Crowley had arrived in America two years ago. He was having the time of his life. 

He had traveled initially, on a whim. The creation of America was something Hell had praised him for. The temptation of Christopher Columbus to “discover” the continent and begin centuries of suffering as America built itself was brilliant. Columbus had since found himself a very lovely spot in Hell and an entirely new nation had been built on malicious influence. Well done, Demon Crowley, truly well done.

Crowley had never argued with any of it, he’d only done what he’d always done when humanity did something terrible: acted proud of his “accomplishment” while in truth watching from afar with some degree of horror. He did love humans, but he wondered if his whole effort about tempting them into knowing the _ difference _between good and evil ever properly stuck.

When in 1920 he had received yet another American-based letter of praise for his work on American Prohibition and the subsequent suffering and temptation it would cause, Crowley decided it was high time to hop on a ship and actually see his “creation” firsthand. 

He did just that, his ship docking in New York in 1920, and when he stepped off, New York_ roared. _

Crowley hadn’t realized how _ old _ London was until he set foot in New York, a city in a country just a few years shy of a hundred-and-fifty, a blink in an immortal’s eye. London was beautiful, yes, and Crowley’s _ true _ home, dare he say it, but it was old. Old and lived-in and worn. Crowley loved it, he’d aged with it as much as he could, but he had forgotten what it was like to be in a city this _ young. _

It was _ vibrant _ with flashing lights and speeding cars and _ people, _ so many _ people. _ The streets and roads were packed with noise and lights and _ life. _ New York felt to Crowley as if it were still learning. Learning how to be a city. A home. It _ fascinated _him. 

He didn’t intend to stay for as long as he had but he’d quickly grown fond of New York, of America. The fact that he was English entranced people here. They loved to listen to him talk. And when you are immortal, urgency is hard to come by. Another day, another week, another month. What did it matter? He’d had his car brought from England and gotten an apartment, and started to enjoy life in this young city. 

He also owned a club. 

There were lots of clubs in New York, but Crowley’s club, which he called the Garden, was the kind of club you needed to have a specific card to get into. The kind of club that offered things like jazz, dice, and moonshine. Crowley’s kind of club had been popping up around New York. Speakeasies, they called them, they were secret clubs, horribly kept secrets really.

No one would ever look at Crowley and think, _ “That there is a businessman,” _ because he was not, there was nothing about running a business that Crowley found appealing. This perhaps had to do with the fact that most businessmen were part of his lot and he found each and every soul he’d met insufferable. There were however several things about running an underground club complete with a live band, several gambling tables, and _ copious _ amounts of very illegal substances that Crowley found appealing. One may argue even _ if _the act of owning such an establishment was purely for the fun, one would still run into the business side, the money, the numbers, illegal or not that’s just how it is. However, there is some beauty in being a demon: the club would stay open regardless of tedious numbers, all Crowley had to do was wish it, and wish it he did.

Crowley was aware the name was little on the nose, yes. _ The Garden._ He couldn’t help himself. It was a sort of sinful little Eden to the people of the city, and it was full of forbidden fruits. 

Besides, no one ever called it “The Garden” Crowley’s regulars had taken to calling it “Tony’s Garden” or simply “Tony’s.” “Tony” being what the locals called him. He’d first heard it after his first night running the club, it had very much been an experiment then, for both him _ and _ the city. The night had gone _ shockingly _well and ended finally with Crowley waking the last patron, a man who had passed out in a booth, at around two in the afternoon. The two of them proceeded to have this conversation: 

“Hey, sir, I need you to leave.” 

The man raised his head like it was made of lead. “Wha… ”

“Leave. You need to _ leave _,” Crowley said. 

“Oh,” The man said, standing up very slowly. He took one step toward the door, then turned stiffly around. Pointing his finger in the direction of Crowley. “Wha’s yer name?” 

“Crowley.”

“Cr-_ow-_ley… ” The man struggled with the name on his drunk tongue. 

_ “Crowley,” _Crowley corrected, through clenched teeth. Then with a sigh. “Anthony J. Crowley.” 

“An’tony…” The man paused, stared into nothing, and gave a drunken snort. “S’nice place, Tony.” 

He’d been Tony in America ever since. 

Crowley _ would _ return to London, and he’d do it within the next decade. Two decades. He’d do it _ soon, _ by immortal standards. He _ did _love London, it would never stop being home and he missed it. He did. He missed the cramped, old streets, and the worn, grey look of it all. He missed his half-empty flat and he missed little old bookshops.

No one called him Tony, either.

He’d been thinking of London more and more often as of late, and perhaps that could explain why he woke up to a very peculiar feeling in his chest. 

It was similar to the way a young child feels on Christmas morning, that feeling of possibly getting something you desperately want, and it’s only right downstairs. Crowley sat up in bed and opened his window to look out into the street, New York poured into his apartment. The sound of automobiles chugging and beeping down the road. The smell of city smog mixed with a dense, cold scent that promised rain. The sight of the streets crowded with people in long coats and fine hats trying to go about their day. Nothing looked different. The city had not stopped to acknowledge what Crowley felt. 

But it was there. Unmistakably. It had woken him. Nothing wakes Crowley. When he wants to sleep, he sleeps. He’d sleep through a century, sleep through a war outside his window, and he had. It _ woke _him. It would wake all demons, but not for the same reason.

Crowley did three things. 

Firstly, he reached inside his bedside drawer and pulled out a card. Secondly, he deeply hoped he was correct. Thirdly, he snapped his fingers, and in a way frighteningly similar to a magic trick, the card vanished. 

\---

Aziraphale had arrived in America two hours ago. He was terribly unimpressed. 

He’d received a letter from Heaven that prohibition had been a great success and he should be very proud of his work. Unfortunately, with Hellish intervention, corruption was spreading through the nation and ruining all of Aziraphale’s efforts. The letter went on to say please, Aziraphale, head back over there as soon as possible, and see what can be done to ensure that hard work is not counteracted. 

Aziraphale had never set foot in America. This would come as no shock to anyone as Aziraphale was so violently English he may be physically repelled from the country should he get too close. He looked like the kind of Englishman who would be still calling it “The Colonies” with a completely serious tone, and he was that, until sailing here over the Atlantic made the name “America” stick in his mind. He could hardly be blamed, it was called The Colonies in England for longer than it was called America, and it always takes Aziraphale awhile to catch up to new trends. 

He didn’t _ hate _ America by any means, he just had no real desire to visit. He loved England and Europe and all they had to offer. America was such a long way off. He’d never find the time. Heaven’s letter had forced his hand, _ he’d _ never told them he’d come up with prohibition, but he wasn’t going to deny it, so he boarded the ship. Heading to America and running holy errands wasn’t the _ worst _thing in the world, and everything he left behind in London-- his shop, his clothes, his books-- would be exactly as he left it. 

Except for London.

Cities are built by humans, and humans live short lives, which meant Aziraphale would not return to the London he left. Humans would build onto it, change it, and they could not afford to wait for him. Aziraphale would not be there to see it. He felt a little silly, he’d left London before, he’d existed before there ever _ was _a London to leave, but Aziraphale had been there when it was built, he’d watched it be named. 

Aziraphale realized as he stepped off the ship, that he was terribly homesick. He realized at the same moment, that New York was not home at all. 

Aziraphale proceeded to stand in a series of very long lines in order to have his passport stamped by a smoking man who mumbled a quick, _ “Welcome to America,” _ while his bags were picked through and tossed about carelessly. He winced as a security guard sifted through his books. 

“Those- those are all first additions you know,” Aziraphale said. 

To this, the security guard looked up, paused to stare at Aziraphale for one moment, before he closed the bag and tossed it onto the ground with the others. 

Aziraphale was now, officially, in America. 

He began to gather his bags onto a provided trolley, he had quite a lot of very nice bags, filled with clothes and books to last- Aziraphale didn’t know how long. As long as they needed to. Aziraphale could lift them each onto the trolley with ease, he could do so without having to touch them, but he kept pausing, distracted by something.

“Need help with your stuff, mister?” said a boy outside the checkpoint. Aziraphale turned to look at him, he couldn’t have been older than seventeen. 

“Oh, yes. Thank you,” said Aziraphale, stepping back from the trolley.

The boy started loading the bags. “What’re you in New York for?” he said. 

“Business,” Aziraphale said and wondered if the boy was old enough to be working. 

“There ain’t a better place for it.” The boy was struggling with the largest bag. Which was filled entirely with books. 

“I’m sure,” said Aziraphale, trying very hard not to be rude to the poor boy. He was doing a very good job loading his bags, but Aziraphale didn’t feel like talking, and he didn’t understand American’s need to constantly do so.

Aziraphale helped the boy with the largest bag, who nodded appreciatively and began to push the cart towards the street. “Where’re you staying?” 

“The Plaza Hotel I believe.” Aziraphale looked around, people of all sorts ran in all directions. He heard four different languages spoken just during this walk. 

“Ha! Knew you was rich,” said the boy, smiling. “All you Englishmen are rich.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” 

“You sure look rich,” said the boy. 

Aziraphale laughed awkwardly in response, before going back to being distracted. He was terribly homesick two hours after getting off the boat, and nothing about New York reminded him of home, but, there was something… 

“You’ll need a cab,” said the boy as they stepped onto the street.

Aziraphale blinked, looking up.

New York looked back.

The boy ran to the curb and waved his arms, shouting into the street, a black automobile pulled to a stop. The boy waved Aziraphale over, loading his bags as best he could into the taxi, then he held out his hand, “Welcome to New York!” 

“Thank you, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, shaking his hand. 

The boy looked down at his palm, expecting to see some form of money, and frowned when he saw the one-pound note sitting in it, “Um, mister?” 

“Oh, right,” Aziraphale said, “Do forgive me. Why don’t you check again?” 

The boy looked at his palm again, a one-dollar bill now sat in it. The boy smiled. “That’s a nice trick!” 

To this, Aziraphale smiled, and tipped his hat, and got into the taxi. “Plaza hotel, please,” he told the driver and began to gaze out the window. 

His driver was mercifully silent. Aziraphale did catch him staring at him through the rearview mirror, but he supposed that couldn’t be helped. If he were a taxi driver in New York City and had been commissioned to take a very well-dressed angel to a historic, expensive hotel, he might stare too. 

The city crawled by as they drove. 

They really barely moved, the streets were so busy. This city. It was _ loud, _ and it was _ tall, _ and it was _ new _. It smelled of smog mixed with rain, and the sky, or the parts of the sky Aziraphale could see through the excessively tall buildings, was grey. 

London often smelled of smog mixed with rain, and London’s sky was often grey, but it wasn’t London’s smog, it wasn’t London’s sky. It was different here. Different and young and _ foreign. _ Aziraphale, for the first time in his angelic existence, felt _ foreign. _Something about that made him feel very old. 

There was also that distraction. 

Aziraphale found himself rubbing his hand over his heart, which had begun to beat faster since he’d first noticed the distraction. He cleared his throat. It was the tiniest thing. Like a misplaced tile in a perfect mosaic, _ just _present enough to gain attention. 

Aziraphale shifted in his seat. 

There was something in his pocket.

Something he hadn’t put there, with sharp corners, and currently jabbing him in the leg. He reached in and pulled it out, squinting at it. It was a card.

A black and blank card except for a very simple, flat drawing of a red apple, wrapped in a white serpent. On the other side were words, written in the same white color as the serpent: An address, and the word “Midnight.” 

\---

The Garden is hard to find. 

The original garden was located in the center of a desert, after all, an oasis in a barren land, far away from everything. It seemed only natural _ this _garden follow its lead. 

It has nothing to do with not getting caught, the people who did the catching were steady regulars at the Garden. No, this was about the _ thrill. _

You’ll have to go down an alleyway, it’s the one just behind Times Square, in part that never gets any of the light. One of those red-brick alleyways that’s always wet and too tight for two people and filled only with fire escapes, garbage, and rats.

In that alley, you’ll find a door. 

There should be no doors in an alley like this. This alley exists only as a ratway and a garbage dump, and that’s how it stays so well hidden, see. It shouldn’t be there. It shouldn’t be there to the point that your mind automatically ignores it, but promise you, it’s there. All you have to do is get invited. 

Next, you’ll find a man.

He sits just outside the door that should not be. His face is hidden behind locks of thinning silver hair, but he’s got a long scarf and a faded brown trench coat, he wears those gloves that stop at his fingertips, fingertips that are a deep, reddish-purple. Hand him your card. He will not ask for it. He will not look up. But hand him your card. 

If it’s the right card, he’ll knock. 

Then, you’ll find the Garden. 

It’s a stark contrast from the alley, it’s still dark, but it’s not that lonely street darkness. This is the kind of darkness people get drunk in, lose money in, find ruined lovers in. Otherwise, it’s clean, sleek, and very, very black. 

There’s a bar on the far left wall, stocked with multicolored concoctions in bottles of various shapes and sizes, it’s manned by a girl called Kitty, her nails are always red. Towards the back, there are three tables with some cards and some dice. They’re run by three men who call themselves Fire, Stinger, and Lucky. Tonight is Lucky’s first night back, he isn’t good at living up to his name. Lastly, there’s a stage opposite to the bar where a jazz band plays and space for everyone to dance, framed by a few candlelit snakeskin leather booths. It’s a rather large club, larger than a club in this location has any right to be, but at this point, it’s best not to ask more questions 

In a non-specific location of the club, there’s Tony. 

He wears black three-piece suits, complete with a silk hat, tie, and dark-tinted glasses. He wore snakeskin gloves, snakeskin shoes, and a snakeskin belt. The only piece of his outfit that wasn’t black was the silver buttons on his suit, his belt buckle, and a chain, connected to a silver pocket watch. He liked to show up about an hour before the club opened, ensure everything is in order, talk to the staff with that accent of his. 

Tony went up to Lucky. “Welcome back.”

Lucky did not look up, he was busy shuffling his cards. “Thanks, Tony.”

He watched Lucky’s hands, counting each card as it switched between them. “No cards up your sleeve tonight, right?” 

Lucky gave a feigned laugh. “‘Course not.” 

“Good.” He put a hand on Lucky’s shoulder. “Try and have fun tonight, alright?”

Lucky gave a tight-lipped smile and nodded. “Will do.” 

Tony smiled and walked across the empty dance floor. 

_ Tony _. He didn’t like it, but perhaps it was more fitting than Crowley when the bar opened. 

Crowley had spent a lot of time thinking this place up, the locale, the decor, the staff. It was nice to have an imagination as a demon. The outfit he was particularly proud of, though he was considering adding a cane. One made out of polished ebony with a silver snake-head handle, ideally, it would shoot bullets.

He walked to the base of the stage, the band had already gathered, he watched them for a moment, as they talked and laughed and already began to drink. He listened to the broken notes as they tuned and tested their instruments. Crowley went to the saxophone player and held a five-dollar bill between his fingers. 

“Play your best. I’ve got a friend coming.” 

\---

The distraction Aziraphale felt had begun to make sense. 

His suite at the Plaza truly was beautiful. It matched his style quite well. Velvet furniture. Luxurious drapes. It had a second floor, where the bedroom was located, accessed by a marvelous staircase. The hotel staff had put a pitcher of water on a table in the bedroom along with a few very nice chocolates. There was still more to discover about the suite and bags to unpack. Currently, Aziraphale sat on his bed and stared at the card. 

Part of him, a part of him that felt an emotion Aziraphale could not name, was trying to convince him the card _ wasn’t _Crowley’s doing. Perhaps it was the work of the boy on the dock, the one that said he looked rich. Aziraphale had heard of pickpockets and New York’s gangs, perhaps the boy had slipped the card in his pocket as a sort of robbery setup. A robbery set up for a gang with a coincidental icon. 

The rest of him, that felt an emotion Aziraphale would not name, knew it was Crowley. 

Prohibition was the kind of thing that was vague in its allegiance, caused great purity _ and _great suffering. Exactly something Crowley would take credit for. Heaven’s letter had mentioned “corruption.” Aziraphale felt almost foolish for not expecting Crowley to be here, he hadn’t been around London in a good while after all. 

_ Ah, _ Aziraphale thought, _ There it is again. London. _

He continued to stare at the card, flipping it between the serpent and the writing. He’d asked the front desk where the address was, and they said they had no idea what he was talking about. There’s nothing there, nothing at all. The man who said it clearly did not understand it’s impossible for a human to lie to an angel. 

He took one of the chocolates the staff had left for him and went to his window. It was open, slightly, and the night air was thick with the smell of rain, though none came down. New York glowed in the dark below him. So bright you couldn’t see the stars. They’d fallen down here and been arranged on the ground, they lined the streets.

He wasn’t being fair to this city, was he? All this complaining and comparing, thinking about how unlike London it all was and oh dear _ lord _, he really did sound old. For Heaven’s sake, he would be here a while, he should at the very least get to know this city. 

He rubbed the card between his forefinger and thumb, it had a smooth, professional texture to it. He turned to the side with the drawing of the serpent and the apple. 

_ Really, Gabriel, I had to go. I had to see the nature of the Adversary's corruption. It was terrible. Hated every moment of it. Full of sin. But now I know. _

Aziraphale ate his chocolate. 

He then partially and not very neatly unpacked one of his bags, pulling out the pieces of a very nice, very white, and very expensive-looking suit. 

He was going out, after all, he had standards. 

A bit of thunder rolled overhead. 

\---

The Garden was a colorful one. 

There is something about the muted candlelight that brought out the intense shades of sequined greens, reds, and pinks on the women’s dresses. Something that brought out the otherwise unnoticed sheers of blues and purples that shone off the men’s suits. They all held potent, colored concoctions, that did their intended purpose quickly and very thoroughly. 

There was only one man that wore pure black.

He had a habit of slinking. Most people in the crowds not realizing he’s there until he’s behind them. This would be unsettling under most circumstances, but not when he did it. When he did it, people had fun. Did things like bet ma’s ring on that crap game. Had the migraine-inducing drink. Danced with the gentleman that looked oh so familiar. 

Nothing too bad, people had to keep coming back after all. 

Tonight, Crowley was not doing much slinking. He was doing a lot of standing, and a lot of staring. Staring at his pocket watch, and staring at the door. 

It was half-past midnight. 

The club was thriving, people laughed, and drank, and danced, and listened to jazz. It wasn’t the busiest it would get, more people would come until the sun rose, but Aziraphale was not the kind of person to show up too late. 

Crowley had been more anticipative of Aziraphale showing up than he had realized, as he was now grinding his teeth, and, as the minutes ticked by, hissing under his breath. 

He went to the bar- not at all slinking as he did- and tapped the counter twice. The bartender, the red-nailed woman called Kitty nodded, and began to make a drink.

He had acted too quickly, sending the card. The feeling he’d gotten- it could have been _ any _angel. He was just very used to there being only one angel on earth close enough for him to sense. Maybe America had its own angel that only recently came to New York. 

Kitty whistled, and she slid him a red-colored drink, spinning the glass with her nails. 

Crowley caught it and sipped it, it tasted like pure alcohol with a hint of apple. 

Or Aziraphale simply did not want to come.

It wasn’t very divine what was happening here, Crowley should not really have expected him to show up. He had just thought that after a couple of years they deserved a night out. 

He took a very long drink from his red apple concoction. 

“Tony,” Kitty said, sliding another drink to a guest. 

“Hm?” Crowley looked up at her from over the rim of the glass, it was nearly finished.

She nodded to the door. “‘Nother fella just walked in.” 

Crowley, quicker than intended, turned to the door. 

Through the color of the Garden, the shades of sequins and sheers of suits, there was a spot of pure white. 

It struck out so strikingly against the other colors that it seemed to glow. It wore a top hat and a suit at least two centuries out of fashion, but it was so vibrant in the club no one would dare say a thing. Anyone who caught sight of it would look and think _ “That there must be an angel.” _

Crowley slammed his empty glass on the counter, hard enough to startle Kitty and the guests. “Refill that and make another.” 

Kitty nodded, but Crowley did not see it, he had disappeared into the dark between the colors.

\---

Aziraphale wondered as he stepped into the club if this is what the inside of Crowley’s head looked like. 

It had been impossible to find, two cab drivers told him it didn’t exist, one most _ certainly _lying. He finally managed to get a ride from an older man with a very bad habit of chewing tobacco, he’d taken the card, looked at it, looked at Aziraphale, and said, “Gotta admit, you don’t look like a Tony’s guy.” 

Aziraphale had put a lot of thought into what that meant, but decided, ultimately, to leave it to Crowley, because the moment he stepped into the impossible club, he was certain there was no way- in Heaven or Hell- that the demon was not here. 

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Aziraphale said- shouted, over the chatter and the music- to a woman in a red sequined gown. “Have you seen my friend? Dark glasses? Red hair?” 

The woman paid him no mind and wandered away.

“Sir!” Aziraphale shouted to a man in a bluish suit. “I’m looking for a man! Tall! Lovely cheekbones!” 

The man shrugged his shoulders and took a sip from something that was a very unsettling shade of blue. 

“Excuse me!” Aziraphale began to shout. “I’m looking for someone! Would anyone be willing to help with that? Hello?” 

“Need help, mate?” said an accented voice from behind him.

Aziraphale sighed with relief. “Thank the _ Lord, yes.” _Aziraphale turned around. “I’m looking for a man, most definitely wearing black, he’s got- he’s got a small snake drawn on the side of his face, have you--” Aziraphale focused on who he was speaking to. “--seen anyone… like… that…”

Crowley smiled down at him. “Can’t say I have.” 

_ “Crowley…” _Aziraphale felt himself smile, he looked him up and down. 

“Hello Aziraphale,” Crowley said, wearing his serpent’s smile. “Lovely cheekbones was it?”

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide, and his face went hot. “You- _ heard _that? You’ve been following me around have you?” 

Crowley’s serpent’s smile faded into a more boyish one. 

“Oh, _ you,” _ he hit Crowley on the arm. “You _ wicked _old serpent.” 

Crowley laughed. 

Aziraphale stopped being angry, though he never really was angry. Everything around him was so strange and distant and _ foreign _ but _ Crowley- _well, demon or no demon he was from home. 

“Is there anywhere,” Aziraphale was still shouting, God above, this place was _ deafening. _ “ _ Quieter _ where we can talk?” 

Crowley shrugged. “Not really. There _ is _a place where we can drink.”

“Isn’t alcohol illegal in America?” 

“Not really,” he gestured for Aziraphale to follow. “C’mon.” 

Aziraphale grabbed onto Crowley’s arm as they moved through the shimmering crowd. He had no choice. The club was so large and the crowd so dense that Aziraphale was convinced if he should lose him, he’d be lost entirely until the whole place cleared out, and who knew when that would be? 

The place they could drink was a counter, where a woman with frightening nails stood, silhouetted against a bright assortment of multi-colored bottles filled with liquid that Aziraphale assumed was alcohol, but he really couldn’t be sure. 

The woman nodded to them as they approached, Crowley tipped his hat to her. “This is my friend,” he said, “Mr. Fell.” 

The woman looked at Crowley, then to Aziraphale. “Your friend?”

“Yes,” said Crowley.

“Lovely to meet you,” said Aziraphale. 

The woman raised her eyebrows and smiled as if she was trying not to laugh at a very funny joke. “Drinks over there, Tony.”

Crowley unlinked his arm from Aziraphale’s, going to the edge of the counter and picking up two tall glasses filled with a red liquid.

“Did she just call you Tony?” Aziraphale said as Crowley handed him his glass.

“Don’t ask.”

Aziraphale inspected the liquid in his glass, swirling it a bit, it was distressingly thick and smelled rancid. 

Crowley held out his glass to Aziraphale. “Welcome to New York.”

Aziraphale, with one last flick of the eye from the demon to the suspicious liquid, clinked their glasses together. “Thank you.”

He brought the glass to his lips and took the smallest sip he could manage. It burned his tongue the moment it entered his mouth. He choked and gagged, pulling the glass away. “It’s disgusting!” 

Crowley pulled the glass from his lips with a satisfied _ Ah. _“It’s American.” He took another sip, not pausing for a moment.

Aziraphale shuddered in disgust. 

He looked out into the club

Now that he was no longer fighting for his life in the crowds, he was struck by them. So many people, enjoying themselves so irresponsibly. They were of all sorts. Just from where Aziraphale was standing he could see a man, a very obviously wealthy man, with three women and two other men looking at him with great interest, in a beautiful black-and-white suit. Holding a glass full of clear liquor. Babbling and laughing and dancing and overall making an utter fool of himself. Across the room, he saw a boy, no older than the one on the dock and fresh from the street. He wore a horribly wrinkled outfit and he still had smudges of dirt on his face. He stood around a gambling table, digging through his pocket and putting down a coin with forced confidence. He rolled the dice, and shrieked, leaping into his friend’s arms, and laughing until his face was red. 

Without looking up from his glass, Crowley chuckled.

Yes, this was exactly what the inside of Crowley’s head looks like.

Aziraphale took another sip of his red drink. Terrible. “All of this is your demonic doing then?” Aziraphale said.

“No! Humans did this to themselves.” He turned and leaned on the counter beside Aziraphale. “I’m just enjoying it.” 

“_ Encouraging _it.” 

“Well, what would you expect, angel, really?” Crowley took another drink.

Aziraphale looked down at his glass, the unnatural redness of it looking back at him. “Do I _ really _have to drink this?

Crowley laughed. Throwing his back as he did. “You’re in America, Aziraphale. Try and drink like an American.” 

Aziraphale blinked at Crowley. “You’re- you’re already drunk aren’t you?” 

Crowley lifted his glass, empty now, rocking it in his hands. The ice cubs sliding from one side of the glass to the other. “Works fast. Finish your glass and join me, angel.” 

Aziraphale huffed. The way a young girl huffs at the dirty boy from down the street. “You’ve been over here too long.” He sipped his drink. Now that he was braced for the taste, it was close to bearable. 

“The band’s playing,” Crowley said.

“I noticed, quite loudly,” Aziraphale said. 

“It’s what I pay them for,” replied Crowley. “Let’s go have a listen.”

“Can’t we listen from here?” 

Crowley shook his head, “We’ll hear them better there. C’mon.”

Crowley headed back into the crowd, Aziraphale held onto his arm again, though now Crowley’s way of leading him was far more directionless. Simply weaving through the crowd of guests until they reached a sort of clearing near the stage. Where they could at least stand without anyone bumping into them.

Aziraphale took another sip of his drink. There was a sweetness to it he could taste now. 

“What do you think?”

He closed his eyes, blocking out everything else about the club and trying to focus solely on the music. Heaven condemned jazz, said it brought on sin, Aziraphale could now understand why. It was fantastic. It made him want to do things like drink, and dance, and whatever else those things may lead to. He found himself humming. The saxophone player was especially good. 

He opened his eyes. Crowley stood beside him, taking in the music. He started moving his limbs in a very odd uncoordinated kind of way. 

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Dancing.” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “That’s not proper dancing.” 

“What do you know about dancing angel?”

Aziraphale sipped his drink. The music sounded more clear. “Quite a lot.” 

He handed Crowley his glass and started to dance. The only dance he knew. Learned a bit over a century ago. While it was clear Aziraphale knew what he was doing the dance was comically unfit for the kind of place he was in _ and _looked quite ridiculous without any sort of partner.

Crowley snorted. “You think that’s _ better?” _

Aziraphale stopped and looked to Crowley. “It’s a proper dance.” 

Crowley chuckled under his breath, the loose chuckle of someone thoroughly drunk.

He handed back Aziraphale’s glass. “I’ll teach you one day. I swear, Crowley.” Aziraphale said.

He sipped his drink. Closed his eyes. And relished the music.

“Like it, angel?” Aziraphale did not have to see Crowley to know he was smiling. 

He nodded, eyes still closed. “Very much so.” 

He felt a shoulder brush him, Crowley moved closer to him, swaying, calmly, to the sound of the saxophone. 

Aziraphale brought his glass to his lips, opening his eyes in surprise as ice cubes hit his lips. The glass was empty. A shame.

His eyes met Crowley’s, who still stood beside him, staring at him. Watching him enjoy the music.

There was a candle just behind Crowley, it shined through his glasses in a way that made his yellow eyes glow. “Crowley?” 

“Aziraphale?” 

Aziraphale looked around at the club. The dancing. The darkness. “Why did you invite me?” 

Crowley’s reply came with the confidence of a man who is very drunk. “‘Thought it would be nice to see you.” 

“It is nice.” He agreed. 

They were closer now, had turned to face each other as they spoke. The music was so beautiful. 

“Why do they call you ‘Tony?’” Aziraphale asked. 

“S’my name here,” Crowley responding, the words pouring off his tongue like they had no weight. 

“Should I call you that here, then?’”

Crowley scrunched his face in disgust. “Nuh, you don’ call me that.” 

Aziraphale turned his head. “What would you rather here, then?”

Crowley shrugged, “You know.” 

They were closer now. “Anthony?” 

“Eh…”

He smelled, very pleasantly, of smoke. Like burning incense. “Just Crowley?” 

“Ah…”

Serpents are meant to be cold-blooded, but Crowley was always warm. “Crowley?”

“Mmm…”

He also smelled, subtly, of apples. _ “Crowley?” _

_ “Angel…” _

\---

Their chests were touching. Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s angelic warmth on him, it felt good. It felt like Heaven.

There were things people in their position did in this club. Things that always involved leaving. If they tried anything in a booth Crowley would ensure they never found their card again. 

There were things Crowley wanted to do with Aziraphale. 

His mouth tasted sweet. 

He was lost in a haze of music and liquor, but it tasted so _ sweet. _ Demons don’t like sweet, but _ this- _nothing could resist this. It held on to him, so he held it, tighter. As tight as he could.

So sweet._ Yes._ He thought. _Yes._ **_Yes._**

It lingered on his tongue for a long time, coming in delicious waves, but the taste left his mouth. Crowley had tried to hold onto it longer, gluttonously take more, but it had left. He opened his eyes and stared into half-lidded blue ones.

He had kissed Aziraphale.

It was the shock of it that sobered him. The alcohol leaving his body and leaving him aching. He pulled himself from Aziraphale, who attempted to embrace the air where he had been, stumbling forward. 

“Crowley?” 

“Angel…” His heart was pounding. He was panting. “‘Scuse me.” 

He navigated the crowd faster than should have been possible, with that many people, but they seemed to unconsciously move for him, forming a perfect path to the door. Crowley stumbled outside, it was raining now, pouring down in sheets. The man who took the cards by the door had disappeared. 

He leaned against the red brick wall, his head to the sky. He allowed the rain to soak him. To cool his hot, tingling skin. His breath came out in a thick white fog. 

He pulled a lit cigarette from his pocket and took a long, deep drag from it. Hating the ashy taste. 

The door opened, carrying with it the sound of jazz, and chatter, and the faint smell of apples.

“Hello, Crowley...” Aziraphale said. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley responded, watching the rain drip off the brick in front of him. 

Aziraphale was clearly sober now. Crowley saw, from the corner of his eye, that he was looking at his feet. “I think an apology is in order. My behavior was not… acceptable.” He did not look up. “I forgot myself.” 

Crowley took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly. “Yeah. I did too.”

He looked towards Aziraphale, head still low, he nudged him on the shoulder. Aziraphale looked up, and Crowley held the cigarette to him. Aziraphale took it, and Crowley moved over on the wall to make room. 

Aziraphale leaned against the bricks, Crowley noticed that his beautiful white suit was soaked. “You know these are terrible for your health.” Aziraphale said just before inhaling a lungful of smoke. 

“We don’t have health, angel,” Crowley said as Aziraphale handed him the cigarette back. 

They stood there side by side for a long while. Smoking. Silent. Letting the rain soak them to the skin. 

Crowley flicked the butt of the cigarette into a puddle where it burned to nothing. “Want to get out of here?” 

“Isn’t the night youthful?” Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley pushed off the wall, hands in his coat pockets. Splashing his feet in the puddles. “I’m ready to go.” 

Aziraphale pushed off the wall as well. “Yes, I believe I am too.”

“I assume you’re staying somewhere?” 

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, the Plaza.” 

Crowley gave a half-hearted smirk. “Fancy, angel.” 

“I _ do _have standards.” 

Crowley smirk transformed into a very small, knowing smile. “I’ll walk with you.”

“That would be nice.” 

They walked mostly in complete silence. Listening to the sounds of the city. Crowley loved the way a nighttime street looked in the rain, there were twice as many lights, and every sound was softer. 

“I miss London, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, finally. “Greatly so.” 

Crowley looked at him and gave an understanding nod. “Me too, sometimes, but this city’s got some stuff going for it. Some of it is even legal.” 

They could see the Plaza now, it wasn’t too far of a walk from the Garden. 

“Perhaps I should get a guide?” Aziraphale said, looking at Crowley. “To show me around?” 

Crowley nodded in agreement. “Not a bad idea.” 

In front of the Plaza, the lights from the hotel shined off the wet sidewalk so bright they created a little path into the door. 

Crowley did not walk onto it. “Goodnight then, angel.” 

Aziraphale pressed his lips into a thin line. “Goodnight, my dear.” 

Crowley gave a casual wave and turned to walk into the dark. Letting the rain block out whatever remaining sounds there were. He thought about how the first thing he did when he woke up after a week or three of sleep, would be to lower to the potency of the drinks he served.

A voice called over the rain. “Crowley!” 

Crowley turned on his heel, nearly slipping on the wet concrete. 

Aziraphale was standing in the light of the Plaza, his dark silhouette all that was visible. There was a moment when Crowley did not move. Waiting for the silhouette of Aziraphale to wave a polite goodbye and walk into the Plaza. Or vanish altogether.

“Would you like to see my suite?” He shouted over the rain. “It’s quite nice! Not sure I’ll have anything for us to drink, I’m afraid.” 

Crowley remained where he was, letting the words fall on him. Soak through him with the rain. 

Crowley dried his suit, the water coming off of it in long trails of hot steam. He let his shoulders fall, and put his hands back into the pockets of his coat. “Well, they’ve got water don’t they?” 

Aziraphale smiled. Crowley could see it even shadowed as he was. 

Crowley walked in front of the Plaza, stopping for a moment to admire Aziraphale in the light. Aziraphale reached up and traced Crowley’s cheek with two fingers. “You do have lovely cheekbones.” 

Crowley opened the door to the hotel, gesturing for Aziraphale to go in. “I know, angel.” 

For a blink of an immortal’s eye, America became their Garden, and that room was their Fruit; until it had all been eaten; and all cast out.   


**Author's Note:**

> Song this is named after: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6mUDEBjFgm4
> 
> Good GOD that was a lot of POV changes. 
> 
> This is the first part in an unofficial series I like to call "Vaguely Erotic Ineffable Husbands Fiction" that started off as a joke and then this fic hit 6.9k so... oops. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! If you did please consider sharing it on tumblr from this post here: https://heimurinn.tumblr.com/post/187042318815/crowley-had-arrived-in-america-two-years-ago-he
> 
> I am taking suggestions for future eras to write these two in on that same blog!


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